


Wrong to be so mad about you

by Vracs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-06 10:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vracs/pseuds/Vracs
Summary: Eve and Villanelle go on an undercover mission, except Villanelle is all Eve can think about.





	1. Trouble is your middle name

_Part 1_

 

It’s a glorious twenty-four degrees in central London. Thick, polluted air collects on the rooftop, stifled by its glass confines and white concrete floor.

The sun bounces off the tiles and into Eve’s eyes. She shifts away from it, away from the aquamarine water, away from the chafing plastic recliner stuck to her sweaty calves.

Where the hell could she have left her sunglasses?

She rummages in her beach bag, almost knocking her Coke (now hot and flat) off the stand as she wades through its contents: her cell phone, a clunky notebook, a bottle of water, sunscreen, tampons – just in case – a spare hat, half a dozen pens, chapstick, her wrist watch, a book, hand cream. But no glasses.

She sighs.

“What is wrong, Eve?”

Villanelle sprawls next to her. She peers over the rim of her cocktail glass, a small frown creasing the delicate space between her eyebrows.

 “Sunglasses. I can’t find them.”

But they’re right there, beside Villanelle’s pedicured feet, and she reaches helpfully to give them to Eve, pinching the tip in distaste as they dangle in mid-air.

They’re smeared in factor fifty, and probably sweat. Niko had bought them for her – cheap, knockoff Ray Bans on a holiday to Majorca, that Eve had managed to sit on twice and they still hadn’t snapped.

“I will get you a new pair.”

Eve wipes them on her towel. She rolls her eyes and mumbles, “They get the job done,” knowing that Villanelle will buy her some anyway.

“It is not about _getting the job done_ ,” Villanelle mimics in perfect Connecticut-American, smiling delightedly at her own impression as she sets her flute by her lounger, “It's about fashion. You don't want to look good?”

Eve grunts. She turns her attention back on the swimming pool. Ignores Villanelle when she tells her she does in fact, look good all the time, but that the sunglasses really must go, the underhanded compliment settling hot and tight beneath her swimsuit.

The pool swarms with men. Not the one they want, but men, nonetheless. Financial big dogs from the city, with their post-prandial, pale bellies rippling beneath the water. A group of younger bankers lounge as construction cranes hang precariously off the London skyline behind them. Eve spots one or two housewives who she presumes, used their husbands’ memberships to get in.

She swigs her Coke, hiding behind the safety of her glasses to re-direct her gaze.

Villanelle sits beside her. Her skin glows in soft honey-browns under the afternoon heat. She wears a floral Dior one-piece and Carolina Herrera sunglasses, her pink mouth moving around words silently as she flicks to the next page of her book. Eve wonders if she rolls them out with her tongue curled to the back of her mouth, in Russian, or hitting the hard space behind her teeth, in English.

She watches her lips for a long moment - the gentle dip of her Cupid's bow, the curve of her chin. It brings an unwelcome pressure - all too familiar to her now - along with a headache which latches on behind her eyes and throbs, taking her attention with it.

Small flyaways stick up at Villanelle’s temples, some of them endearing, others damp and curled flat to the nape of her neck where the sweat mingles with chlorine and leaves white streaks. Eve wants to sink her nails into it, into the tender, rose patches at the tops of her shoulders.

She wonders how much it would hurt. Wonders if Villanelle would make a sound.

She's jolted by the sharp crunch of Villanelle biting into the last nectarine, devouring it in seconds, ignorant to the juice that slicks down her wrist and coats her chin. The pip falls graceless, to the floor.

“I know you are looking at me.”

Eve’s insides clench.

Then Villanelle’s laughing quietly, laughing at the growing blush on her face, laughing and wiping her wet mouth and setting her book down to look right back at her.

“You have not stopped looking at me. Is something wrong?”

“ _No_.”

“No?”

Eve feels her pulse jackhammer in her throat. She aims for nonchalance.  “You eat like a caged animal.”

Villanelle straightens, nodding in agreement. “I have been told,” she sets her sunglasses on top of her head proudly and winces at the bright light that hits her, “I have a voracious appetite.” And there it is - Eve's reminder. Villanelle's soft Russian. The _r_ is her favourite part, she thinks, the depth of it, the way it could swallow her whole.

The eyes that meet hers glow in greens and auburns. Now that Eve can finally see them, she finds it hard to look. Villanelle stares at her, rudely, Eve would call it, but with a knowing sort of smile, sweeter than Eve would like, curved slightly around the edges and then widening when Eve shakes her head, feeling pinned by it all.

“Okay, okay,” Villanelle sighs dramatically, “I will go and get more drinks. Two more,” she gestures in the distance towards St Paul’s where a grey cloud gathers like ash. “Then we will leave, before the rain comes.”

Eve watches Villanelle saunter back inside the hotel, her body leaning gracefully against the counter as she speaks to the bar tender, the vibrant colours of her bikini criss-crossing at her back, muted by the glass sliding doors that separate them.

She follows the boy’s hand as it curls around Villanelle’s elbow gently, the way Villanelle nudges him away, flirtatious, the cocky smile he gives her, oblivious to the fact that if she wanted, she could crush him before her morello cherry hit the glass.

Something bubbles, sore and gnawing in the pit of Eve's stomach. Indigestion, maybe. She doesn’t pay it much heed. Doesn’t give weight to the way the heat behind her breastbone lifts the moment Villanelle joins her, cocktail and Coke balanced carefully in either hand.

“Are you sure you don't want something stronger?”

Eve sucks her lips over her teeth, head shaking. Her nerves must show because Villanelle softens, taking her drink and sipping demonstratively.

“I did not poison it.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed Eve’s mind.

“No, it’s not that. Alcohol and heat – And being Asian,” she says, glumly, “don’t mix well.”

Villanelle’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Good. Staying alert for the job. You are so sensible, Eve.”

Yes, for the job, Eve reminds herself. Though at this point, the better half of their morning and early afternoon had been spent waiting for Villanelle’s client to appear, and still no sign of him.

Kenny had checked it out for them, confirmed that a room had been booked under his name, that he was a frequent flier at The Ned, partial to a quick morning dip, due at a networking dinner event downstairs that evening.

Eve points this out, quietly, and then the part about being too sweaty, in need of a shower, not to mention that she’s hungry and exhausted and desperately sunburnt.

“I can take care of it for you,” Villanelle snaps the cherry between her teeth and dusts off her hands in preparation, “It is no problem. Really. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” she moves to dip her fingers in Eve’s bag to search for the bottle of suncream just as Eve tugs it away, desparate to dodge the warm brush of Villanelle’s hand. The idea of being touched hangs heavy and overwhelming inside her.

“That’s not what I meant.” She doesn’t plan for it to come out short and clipped, but it is, and the look on Villanelle’s face falls, imperceptibly, and only for a moment, before she tuts and lets her glasses drop back onto the bridge of her nose, her armour rebuilt.

“I am just looking out for you, Eve.”

There is no flirtation there, not this time. Eve slumps in her lounger, replaying the hurt tone in Villanelle's voice and letting the awkward silence stretch out before them.

 

_//_


	2. But in the end you're not not too bad

_Part 2_

 

The shower doesn’t make her feel better. She’s glad for the sound of the cold, pounding water beating down and smothering her thoughts, but she spends long minutes staring blankly at the wall, no less frazzled than she had been at the poolside. She listens for the click of the hotel room door to let her know Villanelle’s back, but it doesn’t come.

It’s only when she’s fully dressed, combing the stubborn frizz out of her wet hair that Villanelle returns.

“I went to swim. No sign of Dimitrijević.”

She’s upset, still. Eve can tell. Villanelle makes it clear to her by dropping her beach bag at her feet tiredly and slumping against the door.

Eve would be endeared by it, if it didn’t make her feel so guilty.

She sets the brush by the nightstand and carefully approaches Villanelle’s sulking form.

“Hey.”

Villanelle eyes her wordlessly.

In the cool shade of their hotel room, Eve can see freckles forming over the bridge of her nose and the high apples of her cheeks. They look misplaced there, delicate against the cool stab of her green eyes, daring Eve to say something.

She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Villanelle squares her shoulders then, straightening a little, her mouth pressed firmly, stubbornly, as Eve steps to her.

“For what?”

“For today. For being a grumpy dickhead.” Eve had managed the entire morning without a single smile. She’d been hostile, she’ll admit, largely distant towards Villanelle’s attempts at asking her about Connecticut. She’d barely drunk the coffee Villanelle had bought her and made little effort to engage at breakfast.

Replaying it now makes Eve feel nauseous with regret. Villanelle’s still staring at her, arms folded over her swimsuit. Eve shrinks.

“I- I think I was…hangry? I think that’s the word.” Except that’s not the word at all.

Villanelle shrugs. “You do not owe me anything. You don’t have to apologise to me.”

She moves to side-step Eve’s advances, but Eve holds steady, using her body to press Villanelle to the door without touching her.

She smells like chlorine and perfume.

Eve expects her to retaliate, to shove her maybe, wrap a hand around her neck and squeeze, but it doesn’t come. Instead, they stand face-on, separated by mere inches that Eve wishes weren’t there, Villanelle a picture of indifference and something else, something quiet and waiting, tentatively hopeful. Eve reaches for her cheek.

Villanelle flinches at the touch.

“Oksana.”

“You do not call me that.”

Eve drops her hand, her fingers smarting as if burned. Her eyes stay level. She can hear the soft whoosh of her heartbeat in her ears, like static. She feels like static all over, buzzing beneath the material of her linen trousers. She can barely contain it.

She takes a hard swallow. Tries again.

“Let me - ” she trails off, a whisper drowned out by the onslaught of rain as it descends and starts to hammer against their hotel window, just like Villanelle predicted. It casts the room in shadows and Eve uses them to her advantage, stretching her fingers to touch Villanelle’s own as they dangle at her side.

Villanelle doesn’t move. Stays perfectly still, leaning against the back of their door, watching as Eve slowly comes unhinged.

Her costume is still wet, Eve notes. It sticks to her tanned body. She knows it will leave deep, crimson marks at Villanelle’s shoulders and the apices of her thighs. Eve longs to see them. There is cleavage, Eve notes, blushing furiously when Villanelle catches her staring, the beginnings of a small, satisfied smile on her face. She spots the outline of Villanelle’s nipples – the air-con is maxed out, prickling goose bumps all along Villanelle’s arms and collar bones.

She sighs. Her mouth feels like cotton.

“What are you doing?”

 _I have no idea_ , she wants to say. Instead, she shakes her head softly, trails her fingers along the unblemished plane of Villanelle’s wrist until they meet the crook of her elbow.

Villanelle leans into her. “What are you doing, Eve?”

Her eyes sting. “Please.”

“You are shaking.”

She hadn’t noticed. Her hands tremble. She quakes all over, body quivering with nervous energy, all the way down to her knees. She laughs. A shrill, strained thing that cuts through the silence.

Villanelle takes mercy on her then, eyeing her curiously. It feels like she’s being read from cover to cover, Villanelle’s clever fingers thumbing through her pages.

A hand moves to her shoulder, cupping her there, respectfully, and Eve briefly wishes that Villanelle would yank her closer, smother her or hurt her, shove her back towards the bed, onto the bed, underneath her, careless and hungry and wanting and-

“Are you scared?”

 _Yes._ Eve tells her so, hardly mumbles it before Villanelle’s touching her in the most tender, measured way, fingertips at her temple, stroking her wet hair back just like that day in Paris. Her eyes flutter closed. She could melt.

“Of me?”

“ _No._ ”

“What, then?” Villanelle whispers. She traces a line along Eve’s jaw, the pads of her fingers resting on the slant of her neck.

“I don’t know.”

Villanelle’s breath fans hot across her face, sweet from the fruit and the alcohol, Eve can almost taste it. Then Villanelle’s shaking her head, nudging her closer by the hip. She practically stumbles forward.

“I am not going to hurt you.”

When she thinks clearly on it, Villanelle never had done. Chased her, yes. Provoked her, yes. Challenged and protected and taught her things about herself she never would have learned otherwise, yes.

But hurt?

Eve sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. Feels her forehead ache with the pinch between her brows.

“What do you want, Eve?” Villanelle’s voice wavers, opening Eve’s eyes. The face staring back at her squeezes a tight fist around Eve’s heart, the soft beginnings of want and uncertainty written there clear as day, Villanelle’s mouth downturned, eyes shining in greys.

She curves her palm against Villanelle’s cheek. Feels her tilt into the touch.

 “I want,” Eve says. _I want, I want, I want_.

She vibrates from the inside out.

She lets her vision saturate with Villanelle’s dark colours and seeks out her mouth. The press of it is light against her own, never pushing, never taking. Fingers curl into her waist and tug against the material of her slacks.

Eve falls for it all. Falls for Villanelle's polite, unexpected touch, falls against the cold, damp surface of Villanelle’s swimsuit, stark against the warmth of her kiss, the way it softens with each nudge of Eve’s head, hand buried in the drying curls of her hair to guide her.

She doesn’t notice the ticking of the clock, the image of Villanelle's client gathering for dinner downstairs a distant notion, and then wiped from her memory completely.

 

_//_

**Author's Note:**

> Two-parter. Inspired by Hooverphonic's Mad About You.


End file.
